


Stockholm Syndrome

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Moral Dilemmas, Past Kidnapping, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Conflict, Soldiers, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22726237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child murder, and mass killings in chapter 2. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 30
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place during the Siege of La Rochelle (1627-1628) as part of the French Wars of Religion against the Huguenots. It depicts the effects of brutal siege warfare in a protracted religious conflict. Mentions of rape, child murder, and mass killings in chapter 2. Themes of physical violence, starvation, and past trauma throughout. Please proceed with caution if any of these are difficult for you to read.

“On this day we celebrate that, by the grace of the Lord our God, our brother was returned to us.” Richelieu’s voice rang through the hall. He’d left behind his cardinal’s robes after the mass. Now he donned his armour, slayer more than shepherd.

“In the words of David: I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people who have set themselves against me round about. And so we, too, do not falter even though the enemy has infested the very heart of our dear France,” he continued. “Arise, oh Lord; save me, oh my God! For You have struck all my enemies on the cheek; You have shattered the teeth of the wicked. Salvation belongs to the Lord; Your blessing be upon Your people!”

He wasn’t on the pulpit now and this was no church, but still the “Amen” echoed around the room. To Athos’ ears, it was the bleating of sheep.

Richelieu had a hand on Aramis’ back, showing him off to the assembled dignitaries like the trophy of a successful hunt. Athos grimaced, watching his friend displayed like that. He felt the strange urge to shelter him, though Aramis was the much more experienced warrior.

Aramis had seemed so young when they had tucked him into bed by sunrise. The night had slipped away under too many questions from Tréville and the cardinal. So small and fragile as bruises bloomed on his body. Porthos’ fingers ghosted across the mottled skin, reassuring them that nothing was broken or badly hurt. Except for the long shallow cut beneath his ear and a bruised cheekbone, it was impossible to tell now what Aramis had been through, all his injuries carefully tucked away and hidden when he dressed, his back straight and head held high.

“A virtuous and well-disposed person, like a good metal, the more he is fired, the more he is fined,” Richelieu said, presenting Aramis to the crowd. Athos wondered what metal he saw in him. The fine gold and silver of the treasury? Or the sturdy steel of a well-forged blade?

“The more he is opposed, the more he is improved,” Richelieu continued. ”Wrongs may well try him, and touch him, but cannot imprint in him any false stamp.”

Next to Athos, Porthos ground his teeth.

“Patience,” Athos said. This would not last much longer, this politicising. Soon they would celebrate, starved for any small victory, any event at all, and amidst the food and drink they’d forget about some lowly musketeer, however freshly delivered by God he might be.

“Why does he do this to Aramis?” Porthos asked. “Can’t he see he’s tired? That he’d rather be—”

“He’s the guest of honour,” Athos cut him off. “He will do what is demanded of him.” He nodded towards their sovereign. “You can see it pleases his Majesty.”

Indeed, King Louis looked delighted, grinning and clapping his hands with glee.

“It doesn’t please me,” Porthos said.

Athos glared at him. “Get a hold of yourself. You’ve got him back. You’ll have your chance to look after him tonight. We’re musketeers. Our first duty is to the king.”

A low growl built in Porthos’ chest. His body reverberated with tension. “Look at him,” he spat. “He doesn’t even know his name.”

Indeed, Richelieu studiously avoided calling Aramis by his name. He made him a brother, a hero, a brave soldier in turn, but never once did he call him Aramis. Instead he was Daniel now, as the cardinal likened La Rochelle to the lions’ den.

“But God sent his angels to shut the lions’ mouth so they could not hurt him,” Richelieu said. “Our brave Daniel was found innocent by the Lord.”

Athos smirked. “He’d be the first in many years to find Aramis _innocent_.”

Porthos did not go along with his banter. His eyes were fixed on Aramis as if his thoughts alone could renew his brother’s fortitude. 

From military strategy to biblical parable and back in the blink of an eye, Richelieu’s speech flowed masterfully. He held his audience captive. He needed this, they all did, the whole army, the country maybe. A sign of God’s favour, a miracle in their midst. A sign that not all was forlorn, that they were not forgotten, that victory would be theirs eventually. Aramis’ suffering would do wonders for morale.

“The Lord is on our side as he was on Daniel’s,” Richelieu cried.

The men cheered and the King clapped. Somehow Athos doubted that the cardinal would follow Daniel’s tale to the end. The religious freedom given to the minority as a result of the incident in the lions’ den… that seemed an unlikely result.

“With the Lord’s aid, we shall rise up and smite those who oppose his will. We shall crush the Huguenots.” Richelieu raised Aramis’ hand in a gesture of predicted victory.

Athos met his captain’s stony glare over the heads of the nobles clustered around the king. All around them, men brayed their support. Shouts of “Crush them!” and “Kill them all!” echoed around the room.

Captain Tréville’s eyes narrowed in disgust. He did not like this any more than Athos. Wars were not won by such base populism. None of those shouting would take up a sword to be on the front lines of any battle.

While they scowled at each other, there was a sudden shift in the crowd. Athos’ hand flew to his sword, mirroring Captain Tréville. Aramis wrenched his hand free from the cardinal’s grasp and ducked away from him and the king. Faster than anyone could react, he had pushed men aside and flown out the side door.

Silence fell.

“My apologies.” Captain Tréville bowed to the king. “Aramis still suffers the ill effects of captivity. He would not want your Majesty to witness any weakness that might overcome him...”

“Porthos.” Athos nudged his friend towards the king. The silence had broken into rumblings of discontent and the crowd swayed with agitation. The risk to the king was clear, and so was their duty. With difficulty, Porthos tore his gaze from the door that swung shut behind Aramis, and they took up their positions on either side of their sovereign.

“See how a good man suffers, an honest soldier of France, a son of God and defender of the faith.” Richelieu’s voice soared effortlessly above the din. The murmurs quieted as everyone’s attention turned to him.

“He’s not—” Porthos started, but Athos hushed him with a glare. This was not their place to voice opinions.

“These heathens captured and tortured him and yet his spirit was strong. They could not hold him. Satan’s power is as nothing in the eyes of God. Too long have we suffered their insolence.”

Shouts of appreciation and approval rose from the crowd, the assembled officers and courtiers all but mollified. Richelieu, never one to do things by halves, reinforced his point with heavy verbal artillery.

“Too long,” he repeated. “Are we not men? Are we not going to revenge this insult to our Holy Church, to Pope Urban himself? Are we not going to win victory for our beloved monarch, Louis XIII by the Grace of God King of France?”

“Long live the King!”

At first it was a single courtier crying it, his weak voice nearly drowned, but others took up the shout and it multiplied until the room echoed with it. The king revelled in the glory. Deservedly? Probably. Such was the order of these things. A soldier’s suffering made a king’s glory.

Next to Athos, Porthos was pushing back a particularly fervent admirer before he could kiss the king’s hand. Athos watched Porthos’ jaw tick and knew this was not at all where he wanted to be.

“May our victory be their destruction,” Richelieu cried, his arms raised in some mockery of a blessing. “There shall be no mercy for those who oppose us. We shall show them the true might of God and be unto them the bringers of death.”

“Death to all Huguenots!” the shout rose all around them.

Athos shook himself. How quickly the mood could change… how quickly their focus shifted from celebration to this… baying for blood like a pack of hounds. And with their cries of death and destruction, the levity had returned. Toasts were offered and taken with renewed vigour and cheer.

The tense situation diffused—and for a moment he wondered if that had been the cardinal’s aim—Athos looked at Captain Tréville. He gave him a sharp nod and beckoned two other musketeers forward to take their places by the king’s dais.

Athos grabbed Porthos’ arm to keep him from bolting at the same speed as Aramis. No need to attract further attention. Much better to slip from the room quietly and unnoticed. If it was indeed a weakness that had overcome him, Aramis would not be glad to see it made the subject of even more gossip and derision. He’d be chiding himself even now, as he had in the aftermath of the incident at Savoy.

Once outside the room, Porthos lengthened his strides and Athos let his hand be shaken off without complaint. Released from their duty for the evening, they both had the same aim now.

“Our room?” Athos asked.

Porthos shook his head. “Too confined.”

Of course he knew best. He understood Aramis and could often predict his actions with frightening accuracy. They strode out into the garden. A short, harsh shower had left the trees and bushes dripping, their dark green leaves fresh and rejuvenated. In the evening light, droplets shone and glittered all around them. The heat had not broken though and the air felt like steam.

Aramis paced up and down between two rows of fragrant rose bushes. His blue sash stood out among the red and yellow blooms. Such botanical riches in this small castle in Aytré, when even in Paris, roses were rare. It was easy to forget how wealthy this area had been before the war. 

Aramis spun around to face them. His jaws were clenched. He snarled with bared teeth.

“How can he do this?” he asked. “Why does he twist every word I say? Who is he to dole out death with such indifference?”

Porthos held out his arms to calm his friend. Athos tried to do the same with words.

“He’s our cardinal and siege commander,” he said. “It is not only his right, but his duty to wish death upon our enemies.”

Aramis hissed like an angry cat. “He talks of death like it’s nothing. He won’t be the one to deliver it. He doesn’t look into the eye of—” He broke off. “We’re nothing but the blunt instruments he wields.”

“We’re not blunt,” Porthos said. “We’re—”

“We’re whatever he wants us to be. Today we kill Huguenots and tomorrow… and when will the day come when he turns us against each other?”

He kicked a stone and sent it skittering along the garden path.

“You forget yourself.” Athos frowned at his friend’s back. He did not favour such blatant displays of emotion. “This is the king’s trusted advisor and first minister you speak of, and the commander of this siege.”

“Oh yes.” Aramis turned around to face them, an ugly sneer upon his face. “How dare I say anything against our great commander? How dare I not cheer his success? How am I not overjoyed?”

“Aramis listen…” Porthos tried again.

“I’ve listened enough,” Aramis spat. “I’ve listened to all of this for so long. Year after year they tell me who to hate and who to kill. I go here and there and shed my blood and risk my life and for what?”

“For France.”

“For France?” Aramis laughed, but there was no humour in it, only mockery. “Is this not France?” he asked and pointed across the garden towards the battlements in the distance. “Are they not French, as French as you and me?”

“They are Huguenots.”

“Oh yes, I forgot, that makes them less than men, that makes them nothing but dirt upon your fancy boots, Athos, does it?”

Athos closed his eyes for a moment to gather some patience. He understood that Aramis was hurting, but that did not make the personal attacks any easier to bear.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” he said eventually. “We are fighting a war against them. It is our duty as soldiers…”

“Oh really?” The scorn didn’t suit Aramis. It marred his handsome face. His voice grated in Athos’ ears. “What gives you the right to an opinion in all this, Athos? You waltz in here at the very end and pretend to understand the war. Oh, have you read about it? Yes, is that it? Some theories of the Greeks and Romans, your beloved strategy? Are you an expert now? Guess what, I’ve been in it. I’ve fought it since the beginning. I’ve given a third of my life to this war. Don’t lecture me on duty.”

“That was never my—”

“Not your intention. Oh no, oh never, never causing any harm, are you? Athos the Just, Athos the Kind, Athos the _Noble_.”

Athos flinched at that last word. He’d take the insults, he didn’t mind. They were nothing he hadn’t told himself many times before. His inexperience, his bookishness, his limited usefulness. If bringing these up helped Aramis vent his anger, fine. But that word still stung. Nobility. He’d join Aramis in scorning that.

“So good, aren’t you?” Aramis continued. “But you’ll do the bidding of that sadist, that bigot, that murderer Richelieu. You’ll kill whoever he wants, as often as he wants.”

“Aramis.” Porthos looked around them, checking they hadn’t been overheard. “You can’t say that about the cardinal.”

“What? Afraid he’ll add me to the piles of dead he leaves in his wake?”

It wasn’t like Aramis to talk like that, to take death so lightly. He killed, frequently and with some joy, but he never mocked death. After every fight, every shot, he’d see a priest to ask absolution for his sins. Athos didn’t recognise this new Aramis spitting venom at his dearest friend.

“He’s doing it now,” Aramis said. “He’s killing tens of thousands in La Rochelle.”

“They have the option to surrender,” Athos said.

“Do they?” Again, the ridicule was sharp in his questions. “Won’t he just bring them a worse death? Hasn’t he done so before? Wake up, Athos, you’re not that daft! That man orders us to kill. We’re killing men, women, and children. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of them. And he claims we’ll go to heaven for it.”

“He’s a cardinal as well as a general, Aramis.”

“Oh yes, look at that red cloak.” Aramis sneered. “So handsome, so justified in his fury, so infallible that every word I say against him earns me hellfire and damnation.”

Aramis shook his balled fists in front of his face and screamed in inarticulate rage. He stomped up and down the path, clenching and unclenching his hands. Athos had no idea how to counter that fury. He simply gave him space.

After a few minutes, Aramis stopped his pacing and stood in front of them, trembling slightly.

“Hellfire and damnation,” he repeated, voice hoarse and quiet now. “For speaking up against the cardinal. Not for the murders he makes me commit.”

He sighed out a deep breath. Maybe absolution from god wasn’t all there was to it. Athos was familiar with the strict judge that sat in a man’s own heart.

“Hey.” Porthos reached out for him, but Aramis jerked back.

“Don’t pretend,” he sneered. “You and your big soft heart. Always a man of the people, right? Oh yes, you love them so much. But you’ll still be the first to rush in and murder them. Always first to the fray. Killing, killing, killing, that’s all you do.”

Athos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Porthos flinched. That must have hurt. Aramis’ impeccable aim had hit right at the very heart of Porthos. His humanity, his kindness, all the things Porthos had worked so hard for and was—quite rightly—so proud of.

For a while, all was silent.

Athos’ mind raced. He worried for Porthos. For their friendship after what Aramis had said. And he worried if he should say something. He probably should, but what was there to say?

“You’re worse than your horse when you’re like this.” Porthos crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“What are you saying about Angelina?” Aramis hissed, taken aback by the sudden change in topic and immediately on the defensive.

Porthos slowly shook his head, looking him up and down. “She’ll bite and kick just the same when she’s scared, but at least she lets you help. You’re just hurting everyone.”

“I’m not—” Aramis paused. “I’m not scared.”

He sounded so… small. So vulnerable. So scared. They’d checked him for injuries, had made sure that those bruises were nothing but bruises and weren’t hiding something more. He’d assured them that he hadn’t been tortured, just beaten. They’d assured themselves that he was telling the truth, that he’d gotten off lightly. Stiff and aching and with cuts to his feet and one to his hand that he guaranteed them wasn’t deep enough to need stitching. They’d tucked him up in bed and watched over him as he slept. But they hadn’t looked inside. Couldn’t.

“Then let me help,” Porthos said. There was no hint of hurt in his voice, just kindness, the same kindness Aramis had denied was in him a minute ago.

Porthos opened his arms and smiled. A sad smile, a tired one, but a smile, nonetheless. Aramis stood frozen. Porthos took one slow, steady step forward like one might do with a skittish horse. His arms wide, hands open, as if showing Aramis he was carrying no weapons, no bridle to capture him and once again hold him prisoner.

Athos held his breath as Porthos took another careful step. Aramis didn’t flee, but Porthos didn’t draw him into an embrace either. They stood, facing each other, barely a foot apart.

With a choked noise, Aramis threw himself forward, catapulting his body into Porthos’ chest. Porthos didn’t waver, stood his ground, steady as an oak. He folded his arms around his friend, drew in his shoulders until they engulfed him, and rested his head on Aramis’ hair. For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The only sound was a bird singing in a rose bush and the faint noise of the great feast drifting across the gardens.

Porthos brushed Aramis’ hair from his forehead, gently tilting his head upwards until they were looking each other in the eye.

“There.” He smiled. “All better.”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. “No.”

Athos felt like he’d been plunged into cold water. Aramis was always better when Porthos was close. Porthos sometimes teased him saying Aramis needed frequent petting like a cat in some lady’s salon. And when there weren’t any ladies around, Porthos would take over the petting duties. If it wasn’t Porthos, Aramis would find someone else to touch. Athos chided himself for that oversight. They should have held him more. Porthos had carried him home, of course, but after that, after the questioning, the strategizing, they’d focused on the essentials, ignoring that for Aramis those didn’t consist of only food, drink, sleep and medical attention.

Porthos wasn’t affected by Aramis’ short reply. “Shhh,” he said. “You’re alright. I’ve got you and Athos too. You’re safe now.”

Aramis sighed. “That doesn’t make it better. _You_ can’t make it better.”

Still, Porthos smiled. “Try me.”

Aramis wriggled free of his embrace. His eyes were wide, looking at something far away, beyond Porthos and the rose bushes. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s this…” He stomped his foot and shook his head, as if forcing himself back into the present. “It’s _politics_.”

He spat the last word like an insult.

“That’s alright,” Porthos said, undeterred. “Not the first time we’ve been dealing with politics. What really matters is that you—”

“I don’t matter,” Aramis hissed. “Nobody does. Don’t you get it? He doesn’t care. Nobody cares. We don’t matter. They don’t matter. It’s all about politics.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Oh but it did… Sweet, _soft-hearted_ Porthos. Of course they couldn’t escape politics. Athos had learned that the hard way. Run as he might, politics followed him. Different politics now, as a musketeer, but politics, nonetheless. It was impossible to extricate oneself from politics. He shuddered at the thought. He wished it were different, for his own sake and for his friends.

Porthos’ face was pleading. He wanted… wanted so much to make it better, to hold and mend and heal. That’s what he did. Athos watched Aramis’ wry smile, Porthos’ answering hopeful grin lighting up his features. With an ugly premonition, Athos knew Porthos was not going to win this argument.

“This isn’t some distant attack by the Spanish,” Aramis said. Porthos flinched. As a rule, they did not bring up Savoy in conversation and certainly never in arguments. “We’re not in Paris, we’re right here. And it’s happening right now. This time you can’t separate what happened to me from what we are doing.”

“You’re not their prisoner anymore.” Athos had to give Porthos credit for his tenacity, but he was fighting a losing battle. Athos could see now what Aramis meant. “You’re with us and you’re free.”

“They aren’t.”

“They?”

“The Rochelais.”

Athos raised his eyebrows. During Aramis’ captivity, Porthos had recounted their argument from the previous night in great detail. It seemed a significant change to pivot from shooting whosoever stuck their nose out the city gates to worrying about the freedom of the Huguenots.

“They are free to surrender whenever they want. Nobody is forcing them to be more stubborn than mules.”

Porthos snorted.

“They can’t, though,” Aramis said.

“They can wave that white flag whenever they want.”

“And then what? They have nothing to offer, no threat to make. They’d be at our mercy and we all know how _that_ ends.” Aramis gnawed on his lip.

Athos frowned. He was missing something. Something they _all_ knew, apparently.

“We are at war,” he pointed out as gently as possible. Wars ended when one side won and the other lost. That was the way of things. There was nothing Athos or Aramis or any of them could do about that.

“Killing, killing…” Aramis bit down on his lip until a thin line of blood appeared. Athos fervently wished that one of Porthos’ embraces would suffice to take his evident pain away, but he knew better. Death had been a difficult topic for Aramis for as long as he knew him. But usually it was the death of friends he struggled with or a threat to the lives of his friends. He fought more viciously when one of them was in danger, whether with his weapons or his medical kit.

“They are enemies.” Porthos didn’t sound convinced at all, clearly taken aback by their sudden role reversal, arguing the opposite of their stances from two days ago.

“Are they not also formed in the image of God?” Aramis’ voice sounded shaky. He looked from Porthos to Athos, wordlessly pleading. For what, Athos did not know.

"But they are Huguenots," Porthos said. Not friends. Not people Aramis worried about. People he killed.

Aramis scoffed. "Whose crime it is to sing in French the psalms we sing in Latin."

That wasn’t quite true, there was the small matter of revolt and opposition to the king, but Athos understood the gist of the argument. He nodded grimly. 

"I do believe that is what religious wars are all about."


	2. Chapter 2

Athos blotted the page he had just written. He looked over the writing and added a missing dot. Fastidious, maybe. The letter was hardly going to the most literate of minds. But he took pride in this simple work. There was a beauty in it that he did not find often in this siege. He smirked as he slid the paper across the table to Richelieu. The cardinal looked over it, his hand with the quill poised delicately over his ornate inkwell. Athos thought of his father, the late Comte de la Fère, and how scandalised he would be to see his son and heir reduced to a common scribe. Not quite what he’d spent all that money on tutors for.

Richelieu nodded and signed with a flourish. The smell of melted wax filled the room a moment later as the cardinal pressed his signet ring into it, giving Athos’ words his official seal of approval. A small achievement, but an oddly satisfying one.

Athos retrieved a new sheet of paper and smoothed it onto the desk. He was hunkered down in the corner, Richelieu presiding over proceedings in the grand chair while Captain Tréville had been relegated to the spot of a visitor in his own office. Not that he sat much. He much preferred to pace the room and gaze out of the window as he deliberated. Athos suspected he also preferred not to look at the cardinal.

These meetings were one of Athos’ preferred activities in this new realm of being Captain Tréville’s right-hand man. Not as enjoyable as leading the men into action or directing training sessions, but a vast improvement over managing their bad tempers and trying to smooth social relations. He knew his limitations.

They started their discussion again and Athos paid close attention, ready to write down any further orders or letters. He never spoke up. Over the course of their meetings, he had started to make his own amendments to their ideas as he wrote them down. They had both noted, but it was not discussed so he assumed they were in agreement with his small additions. Nothing major, of course. He knew his place.

There was nothing interesting about their work, not in the sense of the word that Aramis would use. Very little excitement to be had in the inner workings of keeping an army of thousands fed and supplied. Athos enjoyed it, though. The stark difference to military tactics in earlier centuries was remarkable. Smaller armies, as he knew from books he had studied, had lived off the land, buying off local merchants or, at the less honourable end of the scale, pillaging farms.

Grain deliveries had slowed with influential land owners demanding higher and higher prices the cardinal was unwilling to pay from the royal coffers. Nevertheless, the soldiers had to eat. The plentiful food was one of the few things that kept morale… if not high then at least existent. It was an unspoken truth that they were only a few failed deliveries away from mutiny.

“Unthinkable, this close to our ultimate victory,” Richelieu said. “Not much longer until we have, with God’s aid, starved them out.”

Captain Tréville shook his head. “Not if we’re starved first.”

“We are far from starvation. Your men do not need a feast every day.”

The captain stared out of the window. Athos thought he could see tension in his shoulders. “They are hardly feasting. Men need to eat. You leave them few other pleasures.”

A mocking smile played around the cardinal’s thin lips. “Discipline, Tréville,” he drawled. “I was under the illusion that you soldiering types valued that, even if you do value precious little else.”

Captain Tréville’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. “I’m not the one ordering pheasants and anchovies.”

“Plenty of common men to fill the ranks, Tréville.” Richelieu waved his hand dismissively. “But only one king. We cannot afford for his majesty to grow bored and seek the diversions of Paris once more.”

Athos did the complete opposite of what he had been trained for his entire life and sought to blend into his surroundings. He knew they spoke more freely when he did not draw attention to himself. Their exchanges were fascinating to him, the verbal sparring of two such intelligent men with such differing morals.

“Not long now,” Richelieu said. “I grow weary of this campaign.” He plucked at his leathers. “This does not suit me.”

Athos bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a huff. The truth was the cardinal had taken to soldiering like it was his true calling. Command suited him very well indeed. It would be odd to see him return to his customary robes.

“The letters to the Beauce,” Tréville said. Athos silently congratulated him for not rising to the bait. “We should appeal to their patriotism, encourage them to support the war effort… if necessary, the encouragement could be military. My musketeers would be glad to—”

Richelieu waved him off. “If it was any other man, it would be my pleasure to give you carte blanche to _encourage_ him in any way you see fit, but this is a matter that requires more delicacy than your crude schemes permit.”

“I was not suggesting we march an army straight to Étampes.”

“Tempting though as it may be.” Richelieu sighed. “To let the Beauce, the breadbasket of France, be ruled by this despicable César de Vendôme… A regrettable oversight of the king’s late father to ever grant the Duchy of Étampes to that mistress of his and let it fall to her bastard thereafter.”

“Its strategic value cannot be underestimated.” Tréville scratched his beard. “We should appeal to César’s better nature. He is the king’s older brother.”

“Illegitimate half-brother. And hardly inclined to help us, as I’ve held him imprisoned for the past two years for conspiracy against my life. I assure you it would bring me great joy to return his estates to the crown.”

Athos leaned forward in his seat, eager to learn why Richelieu did not simply strip César of his lands and titles. Surely, Gaston was enough trouble as a brother of the king. There seemed little need to pander to an illegitimate and dangerous man.

Before he could learn anything, there was a commotion outside. Athos stood, hand on his sword, Tréville by his side. The cardinal did not stir.

Shouting on the other side of the door, the guard challenging whoever dared to attack, a thump, and then the door burst open. 

Aramis.

Like a dark, vengeful angel he strode into the room, Michael in full battle gear, though of course Athos did not imply that Richelieu was to be likened to Satan in this, their private war.

“What is this?” Tréville stepped forward, barring Aramis’ progress.

Before Aramis could reply, Porthos stumbled into the room, half-dressed and out of breath.

“I’m sorry,“ he gasped. “I tried to stop him. Said you were busy. He wouldn’t stop.”

Richelieu tutted. “Discipline…”

Aramis paid him no heed. He stared at Tréville. “I need to talk. With you.”

Athos stepped closer. “Not now,” he hissed. Why Aramis felt the need to disturb them now was inconceivable. He knew he’d have the captain’s ear at any time. Tréville was hardly inaccessible. To barge in like that… They had a war to win.

Aramis glared at him. “I need…” He took a deep breath and turned to Tréville. “Captain, I need to talk to you.”

“Afterwards,” Tréville said. “Meet me in an hour.”

“You encourage this misdemeanour.” Richelieu snickered. “Spare the rod, spoil the child. Or soldier, if you detect a difference.”

Aramis wheeled around.

“You…” There seemed to be too many words all warring to tumble out of his mouth first. Richelieu smirked at him over his steepled hands.

“Yes, something to say there, soldier?” he taunted. “Haven’t you talked enough yet?”

Aramis’ hands balled into fists as he fought to control himself. “I have grave concerns about our strategy.” He enunciated each word very clearly.

“Aramis, I don’t think this is the place,” Athos said.

Aramis still stared at the cardinal. “I might as well speak to you both, since you are here.”

“Don’t…” Porthos pleaded.

“You might not want to do this quite as publicly.” Tréville looked pointedly around the room.

“It affects us all,” Aramis said. “We’re all made to be complicit in the death of La Rochelle.”

“We’re at war,” Tréville said.

“War is one of the scourges with which it has pleased God to afflict men,” Richelieu added, sounding like one of Athos’ philosophy tutors. “Soldier,” he added, derision in his voice.

“A soldier, not a murderer.” Aramis was perfectly composed now, like he was before a shot. Quiet and deadly. “There is a distinction.”

“One you straddle with impunity, sniper.”

“Yes. I shoot. I kill. I ask forgiveness for my sins. But I’m not… I’m not willing to be…”

“Impertinence,” Richelieu said conversationally. “Captain, you do need to work on your men’s discipline.”

“His captivity has not been without consequence. Aramis is still recovering,” Tréville said.

“I’m as recovered as I’ll ever be.” Aramis’ tightly clenched fists were the only outward sign of emotion. “But my captivity has made me question the righteousness of our actions.”

“Matters an ordinary soldier does not have to concern himself with.” Richelieu waved his hand. “You may continue your recovery. Elsewhere.”

“Lift the siege.”

For a moment, everyone stared at Aramis in disbelief. Then Richelieu barked out a shrill laugh. “Cowardice. I did not expect that from one of yours, Tréville.”

“Not cowardice, but a yearning for justice.”

“If you want justice, we cannot possibly lift the siege. An uprising against the King, revolt against the church and state… surely you agree that such deeds must be punished?”

“They are starving. They are dying. Women and children. They’ve eaten all the rats and moved on to boot leather.”

Porthos took in a sharp breath. This was more his usual concern than Aramis’. Athos knew that Porthos had seen hunger growing up in the less savoury parts of Paris. Not uncommon, but a reality that continued to affect him even now.

“Justice…” Richelieu watched his own fingertips as he slowly tapped them against each other. “Justice does not equate leniency, especially where the state is concerned. Harshness towards individuals who flout the laws and commands of state is for the public good. No greater crime against the public interest is possible than to show leniency to those who violate it.”

He had clearly voiced this thought before, maybe written it. While the cardinal was an eloquent man, this felt too polished, even for him. It was curious to realise that the man spent time thinking about such things. Justice and the public interest. Though, Athos amended, in Richelieu’s eyes it would probably always be the commands of the state that were most important.

“Haven’t these years been harsh enough?” Aramis asked. “Years of death and destruction.”

“And yet they still fight, they still refuse to submit to their rightful king.”

“They are caught, they are desperate. They have nowhere to go but death.”

“La Rochelle is their last great fortress. A fortress we will take.”

“Of course,” Aramis said. “I don’t doubt our victory. But reducing humans to this, humans formed in the image of God the same as us… We trap them like animals.”

Richelieu cocked his head to one side, looking Aramis up and down from still-bruised face to borrowed boots. “I fail to grasp the substance of your complaint,” he said. “Surely, separating criminals from law-abiding people is acceptable, even to you. It seems most appropriate in this matter. Had Luther and Calvin been confined before they had begun to dogmatize, the states would have been spared many troubles.”

They were speaking on completely different levels. Richelieu had his focus on the state, while Aramis worried about the person. Athos looked from one to the other, wondering if they realised that.

“I do not ask you to release them,” Aramis said. “But please, in the name of God, negotiate. Accept a mediator, let them keep that small shred of hope.”

“And who, pray, might that mediator be?”

“The King of England.”

Richelieu laughed. “A foreign and antagonistic leader? To negotiate the enforcement of our own French laws?”

Aramis held his hands out, pleading for mercy. “They need some form of guarantee.”

“A guarantee? For rebels?” Richelieu’s eyebrows shot heavenwards “I think not.”

“For their lives.”

“They forfeit them long ago.” Richelieu looked sharply at Aramis. “I understand you are a veteran of these wars. Thus, I would expect you to understand that much.”

Aramis shook his head. “You haven’t seen what I… the hunger… it is inhumane, you wouldn’t let a dog die in such misery. And yet… they prefer this over… over unconditional surrender. The fear in their eyes. The fear of us and what…”

Athos frowned at his sudden loss of eloquence, the pain in his faraway eyes.

Richelieu clicked his tongue softly, half mockery half sympathy. “Your emotion clouds your judgement,” he said. “You forget that reason must be the universal rule and guide; all things must be done according to reason without allowing oneself to be swayed by emotion.”

Athos championed reason in all things. They laughed at him for that, ridiculed his rational approach, his brutal logic. He didn’t mind. He had learned the hard way what emotion lead to. Reason was safer, was kinder in the end. He was glad that his friends had no experience of that particular lesson.

Reason, the universal rule and guide. He should believe that. He had been taught to believe it. He had read countless books on logic and reason, had been educated in ancient Greek and Roman philosophies. He knew what was right. But if it was right, why was it so hard to believe? He looked at Aramis, saw the despair in his eyes. Aramis… ruled by emotion, certainly, but...

“How can it be reason to destroy an enemy like that? To cast aside our laws, God’s commandments, and basic human decency?” Aramis asked. “Let them live, guarantee their safety and you can have whatever you want.”

“And what if I want them to beg on their knees, to plead for mercy?” Richelieu smiled at Aramis, indifferent to his fervour. He toyed with him like a cat with a mouse.

Aramis knew he wouldn’t win. Athos had never seen him so distraught, not unless he was pleading with the invisible foe that had taken his brothers in Savoy. Like he had been in Savoy, he was overwhelmed by an almighty enemy. He was powerless against the might of the cardinal. But he did not give up.

“Then you—”

“Enough.” Captain Tréville did not raise his voice, but he spoke with such finality, that for a moment nobody dared to breathe. “You have made your point, Aramis. You have been heard.”

Heard and summarily ignored. Ignored because whatever he had to say was no news to Richelieu. On the contrary, it was his design. You wouldn’t let a dog die in such misery. Athos was prepared to take Aramis’ word for that. Not a dog, but looking at Richelieu now, he certainly intended to let the Huguenots die like that.

Captain Tréville stared at Aramis and Aramis returned the glare. They looked to be having a conversation that Athos was not privy to. He glanced at Porthos who was eyeing everyone in turn, lost in the intricacies of the situation. They all wanted to end this siege, needed to. In that, their goals converged. Their reasons differed. For Porthos and Athos, it was mainly boredom. Captain Tréville and the cardinal wrestled with a capricious king and warring political priorities in a country that was no longer holding its breath. And Aramis… Aramis had his own, humanitarian reasons.

Aramis nodded sharply, then stepped aside, away from Richelieu, obeying Captain Tréville’s unspoken order.

“You may return to your lodgings,” Captain Tréville said. “Athos, we no longer require your services.”

Athos closed the inkwell and put his writing supplies back into the cupboard. When he looked back up, Aramis had shrunken in on himself, deflated like an empty water skin. Porthos hovered uncertainly, not sure who the combatants might be and who he’d be protecting. Athos caught his eye and nodded towards the door.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said. “If you please… I’ll see you at muster. I apologise for the interruption, Cardinal. As you see, a captain’s business never ends.”

“I do not anticipate comprehension from your musketeers.” Richelieu waved his hand as if he were swatting away a fly. “They are merely instruments for the execution of their sovereign’s will. They are hardly selected for their mental capacity.”

Athos breathed in sharply, then chided himself for rising to the bait. Richelieu had not minded his intellect a few minutes prior when he approved the letter Athos had altered from his dictation. He drew his shoulders back and marched towards the door.

“Captain.” He nodded to Tréville in farewell. “Cardinal.”

Richelieu leaned back in the chair, steepled his hands and smiled his sardonic smile. A cat about to pounce.

“Alas, their ability is limited to small, tangible matters. In which they prove useful. However, one cannot ask them to consider affairs of state, nor to comprehend the role of a strong central government in guiding the fate of our nation, in establishing France as the foremost power in Europe and Paris the shining light in its centre.”

Porthos had a hand on Aramis’ neck, marching him out the door. There was no suggestion of force, but in his own way Porthos was as convincing as Captain Tréville. Aramis did not argue.

As they were leaving, Captain Tréville took Athos aside for a moment.

“You have to understand,” he whispered urgently. “It is for the good of the king. For his sake we cannot signal that revolt is all that easily survivable.”

The king, of course, was their priority in all they did. Instruments for the execution of their sovereign’s will. Richelieu was not mistaken. Their foremost duty was the protection of the king. Athos sighed as the heavy door closed behind him. He bade the guards at the door farewell and followed his friends to their room.

“Really?” Athos lifted several bottles, trying to find one that wasn’t empty. “In front of the cardinal?”

“Might as well go straight for the one who’s responsible,” Porthos said, looking at him pleadingly. Athos noticed Aramis was perched on the bed, swaying slightly. He sighed. They should have seen this coming. Should have seen it and prevented it.

“He doesn’t feel responsible for anything.” Aramis kicked his boots against the bed. “He only looks out for himself.”

“And the king,” Athos said, Captain Tréville’s reminder fresh on his mind. “Don’t discount that in him.”

Aramis huffed. “Even when the king’s—”

“Don’t,” Athos said. “Say another word and it’s treason.”

He tried and failed to put the same steely warning into his voice that Tréville had earlier.

“I’m not so worried about laws of men,” Aramis said.

“It’s men who’ll hang you,” Porthos said.

Aramis scrubbed his beard. “By the grace of God, King of France… it’s God’s will… he… and they…” He held out his hands like plates of a scale. “One life, but divine. Men, women, children, thousands of them… and still…” His imaginary scale veered sharply to the right.

“We’re the king’s musketeers,” Porthos said.

“None of us would ever wish the king ill,” Athos added.

Aramis sighed and yanked his fingers through his hair. He bit his lip and sat up straight. “I know,” he said, his words sounding as hollow as theirs.

“Their defeat has to be absolute. Anything else would jeopardise the safety of the king,” Athos said.

“There’s other Huguenot towns,” Porthos added. “If they see…”

“And not just them,” Athos said. “Think of that Spanish general. He thought the siege was won half a year ago. The king would look a weakling, all of France would, if we negotiated terms of the Huguenot’s surrender now.”

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, Aramis or himself. For a while, all was silent.

Aramis buried his face in his hands. Porthos sat down next to him, rubbing circles on his back and shooting Athos a helpless glance. Athos pulled up their one rickety chair.

“What is it, Aramis?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Aramis sniffed before he answered and while his voice was steady, that little moment stung Athos with the rawness of the emotion it betrayed.

“It’s so brutal.”

“It’s war,” Athos said. “This is not a time for charity.”

“Then when is?” Aramis looked up, his eyes red. “Once war is over? When everyone has found a shallow grave? Then we show charity?”

“Aramis… you know—”

“The king and the country, and my duty as a musketeer.” Aramis shook his head and softened his tone. “I’ve been in this war for most of my adult life, Athos. I know.”

Porthos squeezed his shoulder and Athos was glad to see Aramis lean into the touch.

“Too long,” Porthos said. “You’ve seen too much.”

Aramis gave him a thin smile. “It’s not that. It’s not about me, about—” He interrupted his own trail of thoughts, avoiding the word _Savoy_. “It’s about the work we have to do and the effect it has on… on those we’re told are our enemies.”

Porthos frowned. “You… you doubt our work as musketeers?”

Aramis shook his head, but slowly, hesitantly. “No, of course not,” he said without any real conviction. The ensuing silence was heavy with unspoken fears.

“You don’t do it, though,” Athos said. “This morning on the battlements… you could have had a shot.”

“He was too far away.”

Athos raised his eyebrows. “Not for you.”

Porthos followed their verbal sparring with interest. “He’s right,” he said. “He wasn’t as far as those men by the mill.”

“I didn’t have a clear shot, all right?” Aramis shrugged off Porthos’ hand and jumped to his feet.

Athos leaned back in his chair. “I wonder if this has anything to do with your captivity.”

Aramis threw his hands in the air. “Fine, then, maybe I don’t see very well with this.” He gestured towards his face.

“I don’t think he meant the bruises,” Porthos said.

Aramis glared at him for a moment but didn’t really seem invested in his ire. He started to pace the small room.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t… well, I can, but it’s not _right_.”

"It's just another siege," Porthos said. "It'll be over soon and then..."

But Aramis shook his head.

"You've been in many sieges," Athos said. "What's different now?"

"I've seen behind the walls," Aramis said. "I've had a meal with a man who'd give France a splendid navy if only he prayed in Latin like everyone else. The children and women who die, they aren't anonymous corpses any more, they're his daughters."

Porthos made a sympathetic noise but left the speaking to Athos. Athos wished he had something smart to say, like Porthos clearly expected him to. He didn’t.

“That’s difficult,” he said.

Aramis didn’t answer. He bit his lips fiercely and continued his pacing, maybe to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

“The dehumanisation of the enemy is a major aspect of the philosophy of war,” Athos said to fill the silence. He had read that somewhere. Machiavelli maybe. “Perfectly understandable that you are struggling now this veil has been cast aside.”

Aramis kneaded his forehead. “They are always human. Children of God. They always are and I… I can’t do this any more.”

“Do you want to talk to a priest?” Porthos asked. “Confession maybe?”

“And be condemned for questioning the cardinal?” Aramis gave him a wry smile. “I think not.”

“It will be over soon,” Athos said. He realised how uncharacteristically optimistic that was, but he really hoped it was true, for Aramis and all of their sakes. _A battle that you win cancels all your mistakes_. He knew for sure that that was Machiavelli.

“It scares me,” Aramis said. “When it’s over. The… the reaction. All these bored men, thousands of them, fed a steady diet of hate…”

Hate and not much else. Athos saw where he was going with this. They would be releasing a pack of rabid dogs.

“You’ve done it before,” Porthos said. “You’ve been to how many sieges? You were at Montpellier, right? And the other one, No– Nee–“

“Nègrepelisse.” Aramis was staring out of the window. It was too high up to see more than the glistening blue sky and the branches of a nearby tree.

“Yes, that one,” Porthos said. “That made me join the army, you know. There was a man in Paris telling how they’d murdered a whole regiment and then you took the city and it was all so full of praise and glory, I wanted to do that, too.”

“No.” Aramis spun around. “Don’t say that. Any of that.”

“But it’s a good thing. It’s the reason I’m here now. You’re the reason—”

“No! That’s not… that _thing_ , that… it’s not… don’t say that. You’re… you’re not tied to that.” He leaned forward and hovered over Porthos who still sat on the bed. Aramis’ hands twitched at his sides, as if he was struggling to stop himself from grabbing and shaking his friend.

“Aramis…” Athos had no idea what to say.

Porthos was wide-eyed, staring up at Aramis. “Tell us?” he asked, stretching for Aramis who shifted just out of reach.

Aramis shook himself and resumed pacing. “It was hell.”

Athos was surprised to hear him use that word. It held deeper meaning for him. Deeper even than the horrors of Savoy.

“How?” he asked. Maybe little prompts would help Aramis release those memories from their deep dungeon.

“We were commanded to give no quarter, and we didn’t. We were told to treat them like they treated others and we… oh God…” Aramis scrubbed his hands over his face.

“You don’t have to tell us,” Porthos said. “But maybe… maybe it’ll help?”

Aramis looked at him like he had spoken in tongues. “No,” he said eventually. “It won’t. But… Are you sure? You don’t have to…”

He was staring at Porthos for confirmation. Confirmation he wanted to tear down the version of his own past he had believed for all those years.

Porthos breathed in slowly and released the air audibly. He nodded. “Please.”

Aramis stood up straighter and fixed his eyes on some invisible spot on the wall. “Half an hour,” he said. “No more than that and not a soul left alive.”

Porthos hissed in horror and Athos’ face gave an involuntary twitch, but they didn’t interrupt.

“It’s a small town by the river,” Aramis said. “Was a small town. We didn’t leave anyone behind to rebuild.” He huffed a humourless laugh. “Very thorough work.”

He pressed his clenched fist to his lips, his eyes lost somewhere far away. Far south, Athos suspected.

“We overwhelmed them. I wasn’t in the first assault, not with the cavalry. When we rode through the gates a few minutes later, the fighting was already… dying down. They were dead. Civilians. Pitiless. Men, climbing on all fours over piles of bodies to murder more… My horse slipped, the cobbles slick with blood.”

He shook his head as if he wanted to dislodge the images he conjured.

“My regiment was called back out, to the other side of the town, the opposite bank of the river. Women tried to swim it with infants in their arms, pleading for mercy. Clutching their lifeless bodies when their pleas were ignored. They were speared and gutted like fish.”

Porthos reached out for him again. “I’m sorry Aramis.”

Aramis shrugged. “None of us were.”

“That’s not right. You clearly—”

“I did nothing. I let them. That night I went and said prayers for the dead. I closed their eyes so at least they wouldn’t see their city burn. I did that so I wouldn’t have to…” He trailed off.

Athos looked at Porthos for guidance. This was emotional, so much more Porthos’ area of expertise. But Porthos’ eyes were fixed on Aramis as if he was making up for the lack of touch, offering comfort in any way he could. Athos was reminded of an interrogation. Aramis had taught them that it was best to have roles. So if Porthos was the supportive one, Athos figured he should be the one to push.

“What else?” he asked.

“Fifteen girls… The Keeper of the Seals hid them in his tent, had his personal guard protect them on punishment of death. One of the highest offices of France and he only managed fifteen. He was praised for his great charity, but there must have been hundreds. Hundreds who…” He shivered. “Every one of them was violated, young or old. In the end, they begged to be killed.”

Girls like the daughters of his captor in La Rochelle. No wonder that recent insights had dragged up that old terror.

“The next morning, the last survivors surrendered to us. We hanged them from the walls as a warning to all.” Aramis’ voice was flat now, devoid of emotion. “Our duty was done.”

“A terrible duty,” Athos said.

“And they hadn’t even murdered that regiment,” Aramis said. “People told the king that so he’d be merciless. And… we were.”

He let his shoulders hang, empty of the horrors of that tale at last. Later that same year, he had joined Captain Tréville to become one of the first musketeers. Athos wondered why he would have wanted to be closer to the one who’d commanded these atrocities. It felt the wrong question to ask at that moment.

“You have never mentioned this before,” he said instead. “Has this bothered you for all these years?”

“It’s not exactly something you forget.” Aramis snarled at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Like Athos had no things he couldn’t forget. He brushed that thought aside to focus on Aramis, ignoring the shadowy spectres at the edge of his vision.

“What I meant is, have you thought about this frequently for all those years?”

Aramis shook his head.

“A recent development brought on by your captivity?” Athos guessed.

Aramis nodded. “Which makes me feel no better. I take no pride in having forgotten it.”

Forgotten or locked away in some dark crevice of his mind like so many of Athos’ own memories that he would rather forget. Hidden away, but ready to attack at the most inopportune moment.

“It’s different now,” Porthos said. “You’re not that man anymore. And it’s not the same siege.”

Athos knew Aramis’ reply before his friend had spoken. Because really, could any man ever become better? Wasn’t there evil in every heart, reflected in every action?

Aramis seemed to agree. “I’m just as useless now,” he said.

“You’re not useless,” Porthos protested. “You told the cardinal—”

“And was dismissed. I have done nothing.”

“What do you expect?”

“What do _they_ expect?” Aramis resumed his pacing. “They didn’t let me go for this.”

Athos had wondered about that. Porthos was not inclined to question their good fortune, but Athos marvelled at the reasons for the voluntary release. “They overestimated your influence,” he said. “They thought you could change the course of the siege.”

“My influence, my wits, my courage, my willingness… it’s just not enough.” Aramis kicked the wall. “I’m not who they think I am.”

“It’s not your fault,” Porthos said. “They got it wrong.”

Aramis dropped his face into his hands. “After all these years… still watching the slaughter. It will be Nègrepelisse all over again.”

And they’d be complicit in it.


End file.
